Charles

Charles lets the officers spot the little silver flask, so when he volunteers to take the dogs out during lunch, they think they understand, and say yes.

Together they do two circuits, during which Charles cries: big helpless sobs he tries to keep quiet, and tears he doesn’t bother to blot. He cries for what they are doing. He cries because he must. They must.

He composes himself, and empties the flask into the sand.

Then he takes the dogs on their long poles back through the gate: into the rooms, where the detainees huddle under sandbags, whispering Allah. O Allah.